Shave and a Haircut
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: John didn't know Sherlock could even grow a beard. And it's ginger? That was a surprise. So was John's request. "Sherlock, let me shave you." What happens next involves a straight razor, 20 questions, and some very creative foreplay.
1. Chapter 1

It all started because Sherlock was smack dab in the middle of a cold.

And yes, Sherlock does get a lot of colds. He gets the flu annually too, sprains something every few months, and comes dangerously close to breaking a bone at least twice a year. John is often amazed his lover's made it to his mid-30s with all four limbs largely intact.

But back to Sherlock's cold, and day four of what John was calling The Days of Whine and Poses. Setting a cup of tea on their coffee table the good doctor said, "You're growing a beard."

Stretched out feeble on the sofa, Sherlock dragged a tissue across his nose, lost interest in the act halfway, and so left his hand lying on his face. "If I shaved right now my skin would come off." He spoke with the flat certainty of the dying.

"The thing is, I didn't know you could grow a beard." In the few months they'd been lovers so far, John was sure he'd not seen his new sweetheart anything less than perfectly clean-shaven. "I thought you had Native American blood or something, I thought nothing grew in that pale skin."

Sherlock was too tired to be withering, so he just thought about it hard.

Then Sherlock's brain got snagged on the word skin, which made him think about chicken skin, which made him think about rubbery skin, which made him remember he had a small piece of automotive tyre sitting in vinegar on top of the fridge. Must check on it.

"Your beard," John leaned in close, peering. "It's…_ginger."_

Sherlock didn't have the energy to raise an eyebrow so he just blinked a few times. "That statement is worth italics why?"

John squatted beside Sherlock's prone form so he could see a little better. "Well, your hair is dark, why do you have a ginger beard?"

Sherlock almost made a face. He would have too, ten weeks ago, before he and John became lovers. But now he's extremely aware of changing his behavior—sometimes—so that he's what John might call _nicer._

"The color's really more of a very dark red. And no doubt the inhabitants of these isles have been mixing their genes in a multicultural stew for millennia. Pale skin, dark hair, light eyes—clearly there's what's known as Black Irish in my family tree. Hence, a ginger beard."

Silence for three or four seconds.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"It's quite possibly sexy beyond all reason."

Sherlock blinked a slow gaze over to the man who had became his lover not quite two and one half months ago. "Is there anything about me—at this stage of our romance—that you _don't_ find sexy beyond all reason?"

John contemplated briefly. "Just your tendency to touch dead or putrid things and then not wash up properly."

"Good to know."

Silence then for the span of one medium-long sigh.

"Are you going to grow it out?"

The detective turned his aching head. His gaze slid over John's face but he couldn't read there what answer the doctor wanted. Interesting. When he can't figure something as simple as this out, Sherlock often stays silent. He knows most normal people feel compelled to fill a silence.

John just tilted his head, waiting for an answer.

Ah yes. The detective kept forgetting that John wasn't most people. He may not even be normal. Look at the company he kept.

"Should I?"

"You should."

That fast. John didn't even pause.

Sherlock scratched absently at the bristles on his chin. "I warn you, I'll look like a mad painter. Van Gogh but with ears. Or worse, like a superannuated university student."

John tilted his head again. "I can't imagine you looking like anything but you. This will be interesting."

"I didn't say I would do it."

John smiled. "Yes you did."

...

Fortunately John's infatuation with the beard lasted only two weeks, which was at least ten days longer than Sherlock had expected.

"It's not exactly a conventional beard, is it?" John had been sitting across the kitchen table staring at Sherlock for the last quarter hour. For ten of those minutes Sherlock had been ignoring him. For the last five he'd been telling him to go away.

John ignored him as if he were a tiny mosquito whose words were nothing but nonsensical buzzing. Instead the doctor stood, came around the kitchen table, squatted beside Sherlock's chair and stared hard at his lover's jaw. Sherlock pretended John was a mosquito and picked up a pipette.

Then the doctor lightly ran his hand over the bright darkness sprouting from Sherlock's chin, smiling at the rough feeling against his palm and Sherlock emphatically didn't close his eyes under these ministrations, though he did let his breathing slow and his gaze blur. He finds himself still surprised when John touches him outside the bedroom. He's still surprised John _wants_ to.

"Sherlock?"

The detective opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. "What?" The word was low and cracked a little. Sherlock cleared his throat, stared at his hands, which were holding something that seemed important.

The doctor shook his head, didn't say anything about the wiry coarseness of Sherlock's beard, how it contrasted in every way with the soft dark hair, and how, yes, it made him look a little bit like an unstable artist whose garret happened to contain a skull.

"Let me shave you."

Sherlock's face remained blank while he counted his blinks. When he reached five he trusted his voice to sound normal (impatient; gruff) instead of…not normal (breathy). "Now?" His hands, he still watched his motionless hands.

John stood, nodded casually toward the moon rock, milk and—he squinted—human blood, that comprised Sherlock's current experiment, started to turn away. "Whenever. Today, tomorrow, this weekend. No hurry."

Sherlock bolted to his feet reflexively then sat back down immediately (as if that erased the bolting). He then stood more slowly and said, as if he didn't care, "Now is as good a time as any."

John was already on his way out of the room, "Okay."

...

When he was seventeen Sherlock grew. And grew. But while his entire body lengthened—face, neck, arms, legs, nothing seemed to broaden. By the time he turned eighteen what Sherlock saw in the mirror, the rare times he made himself look, was one of those spindly flying saucer men from the movies—all scrawny limbs and reedy neck, with a big head to carry around his big brain.

Like a girl with anorexia, or a man in love, Sherlock simply couldn't see what was really there. In his case that was a rare and statuesque beauty that was very sensual, very lush, very male. There was almost _too much_ when you looked at the man: eyes too slanted; lips too bowed; hair a dark corona around a marble face.

But Sherlock Holmes didn't quite see what others saw, so he continued to be surprised when John wanted to touch him, whether with a palm cupping his jaw or a hug Sherlock still found it hard to initiate when one of them came home late.

That didn't mean he didn't want these touches, because he wanted all of them, all the time, until the wanting drove him to distraction, a rare state which for Sherlock consisted of forgetting to continue doing whatever it was he was doing. Dropping a little blood on a rock maybe, or pressing SEND after typing a text, or neglecting to blink until his eyes burned.

He will learn to expect the touches, become arrogant in the certainty of them eventually, but that time is not now. Now it's been twelve weeks since the first time he kissed anyone romantically—bussing Mrs. Hudson is not the same—and he's smart enough to know how stupid he is about these things. Until a few months ago, it was not really his _area._

And now he's following John like a faithful hound toward their loo and he's very excited that John is going to be _touching_ him and it has nothing to do with sex.

He loves the sex mind you, but when someone touches you outside of the bedroom—well somehow it's almost more intimate. It's _wanting_ instead of _needing_ and it's a distinction that makes a difference and Sherlock doesn't know why.

When they reach the doorway to the loo, John glances over his shoulder slyly, as if surprised Sherlock is there.

"I'm surprised you're still there."

He was breathing heavy and feeling a little desperate, but Sherlock was still Sherlock so in answer to the tease he gave the doctor a hard squinty glare.

John just smiled back at him, enjoying how easy it now was to fluster his flatmate. All it had taken was a slightly monumental shift in their relationship and suddenly John had something quite resembling power over this powerful creature. It was absolutely fucking intoxicating.

The doctor stepped close, slid a hand into Sherlock's shaggy hair. The detective looked down at him, a little open-mouthed, waiting.

"You're hair's gone long, too, love," John said softly, tugging gently but relentlessly until Sherlock gave in and arched his neck.

That giving in part? _That_ was absolutely fucking intoxicating too.

John stood on tiptoe, kissed the pale length of that neck. He knows how hungry Sherlock is for the simple affection he denied himself so long. For soft touches, for touching words. This doesn't have to be about sex, John's perfectly fine with that. But the slow, soft thrust of Sherlock's hips against his? Well he's pretty sure Sherlock's body has other ideas.

And that's fine, too.

"Another time for a haircut," John said against Sherlock's jaw. "Right now I'm going to shave you. If you like." John let his hands trail along his lover's arms, then fall away. Sherlock's body unconsciously followed those hands, until six feet of want and need pressed against five feet seven inches willing to satisfy both.

Still, John waited, long enough for Sherlock to clue in: "Yes, John. Please."

The asking? The needing? That's fucking intoxicating, too.

"Well then, love, I think it's time."

_You know what happens next. Of course you do. Sex, sex, sex. Until then go to atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com and search for ginger to see what I think Sherlock looks like with dark hair and a somewhat-ginger beard. Warning, the beauty contained in the image you are about to see may sear your retinas._


	2. Chapter 2

"Wow, you're beautiful."  
>"Clearly you're not."<p>

"Hello, gorgeous."  
>"Did you say something?"<p>

"Hey there, tall drink of water."  
>"Is that the best you can do?"<p>

...

Sherlock never was good at compliments. Not that the anti-social genius got many, but for awhile he _did _get them. He doesn't any more.

The problem was Sherlock didn't understand this kind of praise, which always seemed predicated on lies. After all he can see as well as anyone, he _knows_ what he looks like.

So over the years, every time Sherlock got a compliment on his looks he deflected it with arrogance and pique. After awhile no one complimented him. Which was fine by Sherlock.

And then came John.

Maybe it helped that John's first compliment had been about Sherlock's brain. Maybe it helped that Sherlock wasn't so young (and hyper-sensitive) any more. Maybe it helped that by this time Sherlock _wanted_ to believe a few lies.

"God you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."

Though from John they didn't sound like lies. They never had.

The good doctor grinned down at his lover, who sat prim-as-you-please on the closed lid of the toilet, fingers laced together, hands in his lap.

Cupping Sherlock's bristly chin John turned the detective's head left, right. "It's like you're made of light and angles and my fever dreams." John shook his head, pushed a curl from Sherlock's eye. "You're a fairy tale. Sitting in a loo. With a ginger beard and a glower that says you're going to start calling me idiot any minute now."

Sherlock's brows hoofed it upward and he shook his head. _No,_ he almost said, _that's not it at all._ Yet he said nothing, still unused to saying _thank you,_ still not quite understanding his part in this dance.

"Lift your chin."

Sherlock did.

At least he'd learned the bit about letting his partner lead.

"So, take it all off? Leave sideburns? Want a moustache? How about a goatee?"

Sherlock squinted one eye closed. "You can try them all. And then take everything off. I will not emerge from this room with inspired facial hair."

Along with rudimentary steps in this dance, Sherlock was learning to make jokes that didn't sting. It was harder than it looked.

"You're giving me carte blanche then."

Sherlock tilted his head…

"For the next little bit."

…and gave John a side-long glance…

"To do anything."

…then lifted his chin…

"To you."

…and lowered it. Twice.

He had just given John permission. To…everything.

And suddenly, just like that, Sherlock Holmes felt like a damn dandelion puff. Yes, like something light, weightless, damn near _floaty._ And while that should have felt like nausea and fear, confusion and pique, in this small space with this small man, it felt like freedom, like the unknown stretched out into the distance. Like god damn dancing.

Yet all he was doing was sitting on a toilet lid, pale eyes looking up into dark ones, and saying _yes_ for maybe the first time in his life.

"You're…beautiful."

He won't say it very often. But sometimes he will. And right here, right now? This was the time to say it, while the tap dripped and the pipes in the walls knocked as Mrs. Hudson filled her kettle downstairs.

John chuffed out a small, surprised breath. "No one's ever said that to me before."

Sherlock lifted his chin, looked up at John and down his nose at the same time. "Idiots." Then, far more softly. "They see, but they don't observe."

Nothing obvious happened in that loo for the next eleven seconds, though below ground, behind skin and bones, in hearts and minds, great tectonic shifts started taking place. Old habits were suddenly retired. Defenses lowered. Fears examined and found powerless.

And what began to emerge in the drip-drip-drip of that afternoon shadow was a force to be reckoned with. An ex-Army doc and a fragile genius uniting in a way that would not only be recognized in their lifetime, but would be spoken of after, remembered by those who'd seen it, revered by those who hadn't. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had perhaps just taken the first steps in their unexpected journey toward legend.

Legends that had no clue how to fix a dripping tap, but there you go.

"It's time," Sherlock said softly, and maybe he was referring to a ginger beard in want of shaving or maybe to finally growing up and learning to move _in_ the world instead of burn through it, John didn't know. What John did know was that yes, it was time.

The small man leaned over, the taller rose up and they kissed gently—because this was the time for gentle, in that grey afternoon light, in the still silence.

When John pulled away there was a suspended second where Sherlock was still there, eyes closed, face lifted toward him as if to a warm sun. And then Sherlock smiled, opened cloud eyes and—one long-fingered hand sliding from John's thigh up to his hip—gentle changed to something else.

Sherlock's still mapping John. With all the tools he has—the palm of his hand, the tips of fingers, with tongue and lips and teeth—he's still learning John's curves and angles, the spots that tickle, the places that hurt. He's a quick study, is Sherlock, but here he's slow, here he wants to be unhurried, to dawdle, meander, wander aimless, learning the parameters of John's elbows one weekend, the curve above his bum another.

Sherlock would give this study a lifetime if he could, but he can't imagine that…John here, with him, beyond today, maybe next week. He's no prize, he doesn't even know how to _pretend_ to be, so he expected nothing and figured he wouldn't be surprised if that's what he got. So though he wanted, needed, _loved_ to do nothing but focus on one small part of John for long minutes, hours, he was a man who was pretty sure the buffet will be taken away soon so _he better fucking eat up now._

It's that man who reached for John's hip, the one who was so hungry for this he couldn't see straight, and so Sherlock tugged John close by his belt loops and pressed his face against his lover's belly and moaned already because he needed this so badly it made him shake.

"John?" It was an open-ended question—what can I have, do, take? What will you give me? What do you need?

It was also permission: Do whatever you want, because I want it too.

So John did.

And the first thing he did? The very first thing? He pretended to be ticklish.

As Sherlock's fingers dug into his hips again, as that face smooshed into his belly, the good doctor twitched away and giggled, and big-time lied, "That tickled," because that tiny room? It had already filled up with Sherlock's angst and desperation and if there's one thing John was going to teach this strange genius who knew far too little and a great deal too much it was that sex and love could (should) be _fun._ And messy. Silly. Unexpected. Fast. Slow. And now. Very much _now._

"Now, now, now," John whispered and before he'd even said it the second time Sherlock's hands were flying over the buttons of his shirt and tugging it from his jeans. Those hands moved so fast they'd already undone his belt and button and zip before John could so much as take a second breath.

_Slow down,_ he nearly said, then did nothing to curb his lover's progress, instead he stepped from his trousers and pants when Sherlock tugged them down.

With a soft sigh Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and again he pressed his face against John's belly only this time he nipped skin playfully with teeth and so of course John pretended it tickled, which made Sherlock lock his arms tighter…and bite harder.

_"Oh…"_ The soft sigh was John's this time. The wet scrape of teeth and tongue across his hip sent a sweet jolt damn well everywhere, if everywhere consisted of his cock, his balls, and—nope, just his cock and balls.

John pressed his mouth to the top of Sherlock's head, murmured, "Do that again," into the messy mop and was immediately rewarded with another bite, freighted with a growl.

And then he was off and running, this erratic man who three months ago had never done what he was doing now, but yes he was a quick study this one, devoted quite expressly to studying exactly this: What pleasured John.

His tongue in John's belly button: Sherlock knew the good doctor liked that.

Bowing his head so he could run his tongue up the underside of John's cock: Nails scraping across his scalp told him John liked that, too.

And the very straight-forward act of opening his mouth, looking up at John, and _then_ engulfing his cock with that wet, hot mouth? Yes, without a doubt—it's the shallow little thrusts accompanied by the panting little breathes—Sherlock could say John was pretty chuffed with that one, as well.

Fast or slow, hard or soft, later on Sherlock will have a great many sexual preferences, predilections, and peccadilloes, but these are the early days, almost the beginning, and so right now he'll do John any damn way he's told. And so John tells him.

"God, I love that."

_That_ was Sherlock's nails scraped soft-hard down the back of John's bare thighs as he thrusted. The first time Sherlock did it John shuddered and gooseflesh bloomed over his belly and legs. The second time John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, arched against him, and said he loved it. The third time Sherlock scratched at John's skin—instinctively running nails over the same abraded spots as before—the good doctor groaned at the oh-so-very-good pain.

Then John's rocking hips slowed way down and quick-study-Sherlock knew that meant his lover was ready for something more and so more is what Sherlock gave him.

"Yes…"

This time it was teeth against the sensitive skin of John's cock and maybe Sherlock had already developed a thing for biting because John liked to be bitten, or maybe Sherlock liked to bite because he wanted his lover to bite back. In about three years from this day Sherlock would actually start studying sexual kinks—his and John's—testing just how easy it was to get them…and give them.

Right now, perched on the loo, palms pressed flat against the back of John's thighs as the good doctor stood between his legs, Sherlock did not give one hot damn for anything but _this,_ John here, murmuring soft, nonsensical sounds as Sherlock sucked on him softly, and bit at him softer still.

"Oh god."

An experiment-scarred, long-fingered, only slightly-shaking hand cupped John's balls—already tight, drawn up close to his body—and squeezed. John's legs trembled.

This would change for John later too, all of this. He'll calm down later, slow down, plan a little more. But right now being with Sherlock has the good doctor on a hair-trigger, everything intense, sharp, so damn _good._

Sure, he hadn't been with a man in four years, five, maybe six John wasn't sure, but that wasn't why everything felt so exquisite, why just a little blow job in the afternoon (in the loo for god's sake; John has no idea right now how often they're going to have sex in this toilet, but it's going to be far more often than makes any sense whatsoever) made his knees shake.

No, the reason it was all so sharp—Sherlock's nails again, digging into the back of his thighs, right over the already-tender, scratched flesh; John closed his eyes, dug fingers into Sherlock's shoulders—was that it was _Sherlock_ for fuck sake, the rampant genius, the untouchable beauty, the sarcastic arse, and John was god damn in love with him.

"Oh fuck yes."

And apparently a little sweary.

Lips slick with saliva and probably pre-come, Sherlock looked up at John, who looked down at him and swore some more. "God damn it I can't believe you," he said hoarsely, brushing a thumb over Sherlock's mouth, and how could a mouth, just a _mouth_ look debauched and so sexual that John barely even needed friction to feel his orgasm building.

That question would be a mystery for the ages—or quiet-night contemplation—and barely wasn't quite the same as none. Sherlock, a man like other men in many ways, knew John needed _some_ contact and so he stopped massaging John's sac—pressure just hard enough to arouse, to keep John's heart thrumming, but not quite _enough—_and instead licked his palm with a slow swipe of a broad, wet tongue.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," prayed the good doctor, watching, then he darted in for a groaning kiss and a careful bite at one perfect pink and tender bow.

When he felt Sherlock's fingers wrap around his cock John straightened, tilted back his head and was absolutely positively silent and still waiting…waiting…waiting for what he knew was coming but which he knew would take its own sweet time…waiting…

…hand barely fisted, barely touching, hardly moving, Sherlock started to stroke.

_"Noooooooo."_

It was John, talking to himself, or the universe, or his cock, asking and telling all of those things that no, no way, absolutely this couldn't feel _this_ fucking good, that at nearly forty it was impossible for the sensations to feel this new, this painfully perfect, so right that he was about to put someone's eye out with how hard and how _ready_ he was.

Pretty, pretty fingers—even Sherlock's _hands_ make John crazy—loosened even more, not touching John's spectacular prick quite a bit more than they were touching, and it finally happened, one of John's knee actually _gave out_ and he had to drive his nails into Sherlock's shoulders and hold on or he was going to fucking _fall down_ with the crazy intensity of needing wanting needing wanting so badly needing wanting to come and yet…not…quite…coming.

"Oh Sherlock…"

At the sound of his own name whispered by John, the good detective stroked a little faster.

No idiot, John got the picture and kept talking.

"…I can't…"

Wrong time to pause, because those two words had Sherlock's grip loosening and slowing way down.

John's other quite-strained knee begged for reinforcements or a hastening of the proceedings or _something_ please, and so John talked more, faster, softer.

"…this feels…so good…I can't…hold on…"

"Mmmmmm," was Sherlock's relieved reply; just that, a little hum, an agreement, encouragement. But he still didn't tighten his grip around John's hard-on. Instead he said, "Mmmmm," again but this time as he lapped at the very tip of John's prick, thinking a little abstractly that he'd sort of like to taste John in the morning, in the afternoon, at night, see if his come tasted different depending on the time of day.

It was just a flicker of a thought really, filed away for another time. Now was for looking up at John again, at the curve of his throat, it was for tightening his left hand at the back of John's thigh while loosening—yes god damn loosening—his right hand around John's straining cock until John did what Sherlock so badly wanted him to do: Talk, tell, guide, beg, demand.

"Oh fucking god Sherlock," the doctor hissed up at the ceiling, head thrashing a little, voice husky, "I need…"

Maybe John meant to say something else, but he didn't say anything else, just that, over and over and that was enough, more than enough, for one dark-haired man waiting patiently it was everything.

"I need…need…I need…"

Sherlock bowed his head, licked his palm again, this time very fast so that he barely broke rhythm, and he started stroking John's cock, fingers fisting around hard flesh more tightly. It was almost enough, almost, almost, almost.

"…need…need…need…"

Sherlock's breathing ramped up, his hand sped up, but he knew John needed more, just a little more but he didn't give it to him, no, he would wait just a little more, just bring his lover higher, just a little higher before—

"…I…need…need…_Sherlock…"_

At the sound of his own name, said just then and in _that_ way, Sherlock's fingers clamped reflexively around John's erection and John's body said _fucking hell thank you_ and the good doctor started coming hard, _really hard,_ pretty much everywhere, that is until Sherlock—shot in the eye thankyouverymuch—fastened his mouth around that orgasming member and swallowed every last bit of everything, like a starving man finally fed.

_And here I thought this would be a two-chapter fic, but not only do we still seem to have a completely bearded Sherlock, but Livia Carica, that evil, brilliant creature, has asked if this fic will include Sherlock shaving John. I think that perhaps, after the whole straight razor, 20 questions, John-shaving-Sherlock scene that's still pending, it just may have to. What do you think?_


	3. Chapter 3

John's going to be forty this year. Please, whatever you do, absolutely _do not tell him._

Because if anyone tells John he's at the very tail end of thirty-nine, that he's got a touch of grey at his temples, if anyone lets the man know that he's way-the-hell too old to giggle, well, John just may stop _doing _it.

And Sherlock's pretty sure that'd kill him.

Because John's giggle? It really is a giggle. It's not a laugh. Doesn't resemble a chuckle. And can you even define chortle? Neither can Sherlock. No, when he's gone half-boneless with relief, when he's happy, when he's just damn well come in your eye, John Watson really does this one breathy, beautiful, wheezy little thing: He giggles.

"Oh god Sherlock that's—" Listing a little to the left, doubled-over with his forehead pressed to his lover's shoulder, John giggled, panted, and tried to reach the toilet paper all at the same time.

"—I mean—" more giggling "—no seriously, who does that? Who—" questing fingers finally snagged the paper, which brought on a new batch of giggling "—who has sex in the loo, with his _socks_ on and—" the good doctor made a bad job of tidying himself, "—and, and—" and then John just gave up and giggled himself boneless to the floor, long tail of his button-down tucked under him.

And there, amidst his discarded trousers and pants John Watson quietly finished the necessary business of giggling his heart rate back to normal and his breath steady.

Meanwhile Sherlock sat on the lid of the toilet, black-brown hair sticking up funny because John had used it to hold himself up, ginger beard wiry and _still_ unshaved and as he sat there, drowning willingly in the sound of that laugh, he pushed at the bulge between his thighs with the palm of his hand and he said, "Tell me, tell me, tell me," so softly even he barely heard it.

Finally the good doctor got hold of himself in slow degrees, saw that hand cupping and pulling, and finally he heard those whispered words.

It's been three months. Only three since John and Sherlock became lovers. But it might as well be three years or thirty because already—or maybe always—they can do this: detect the tiny pause, see the quick quirk of a lip, smell on one another want and need and, most of all, they can speak by leaving words unspoken.

_Tell me what you want me to do John. What's next? I'm not quite sure because it's still early here you know, in this relationship—which I still don't even believe I'm having, frankly—and anyway I kind of can't seem to decide whether to be arrogant or self-conscious—especially as regards sex—so if you'd just step in now and again and _boss the fuck out of me_ I'd really, really appreciate it, John. Love, Sherlock._

Yes, that's pretty much what Sherlock said without saying much of anything.

John? He's a surgeon and ex-Army medic. You can't be either without a healthy self-regard. So, taking control? No problem, piece of cake, glad to do it. How would he do it now? Also easy as pie. He'd get _Sherlock's_ self-regard to come out and play.

"Well love, I'm going to make you come despite yourself."

For a moment nothing much happened. Then good god you'd think John Watson had just offered his lover a locked room mystery, two dead bodies, and a small pony based off the absolute _joy_ that cleared the clouds from those grey eyes.

"Oh John…" Sherlock's grin was suddenly vulpine. _"Really?"_

Here's something you need to know about Sherlock I'm-a-Genius Holmes. The great detective? Well, he's been practicing sexual self-denial since his very first hard-on. He's got abstention down to a fucking art. Hell, he can resist the lure of sexual stimulation better than a career monk (he knows this for fact) so he can certainly withstand anything, _anything_ Dr. John H. Watson can dream up.

"Oh John, I'd really like to see you try."

With a disarmingly innocent smile John tucked away the last of his mirth, got to his knees and crawled on over to Sherlock. He looked up at his sweetheart, those dark blue eyes utterly without guile, Sherlock looked down at him, and then, without ceremony, John bent over and shoved his face—_bam—_right between Sherlock's legs.

"Ohmygod." Instantly there was a happy dance in happy town and without his consent Sherlock's body slid down, his hips canted up, and his cock decided to see how quickly it could get really, really hard.

The answer turned out to be _fucking very._

Sherlock was just about to start a sweet little "John, John, John," litany when John, John, John put his hands on Sherlock's knees and pulled that hot, breathy, _bitey_ mouth away.

Heart beating so hard he was actually swaying, Sherlock blinked down at his lover and grunted. John grinned up at him. "Oh…did you want me to keep doing that?"

Sherlock leaned toward John a little and blinked. Hard. _Lucky first salvo,_ that blink said, and also _I've outlasted much greater provocation than _that,_ John Watson, so if that's all you've—_

"Ohdeargod."

Sitting bolt upright now, both hands clamped over John's as the smaller man stroked him through his trousers, Sherlock could not believe it could feel so good to just rub himself against the palm of—

John tugged his hand from the clutching cage of his lover's long fingers and Sherlock actually stuttered.

"N-n-nooo," Sherlock murmured and John knew the lanky lunatic was talking to himself, brain having a quick confab with body, body promising it'd do better, both agreeing they were bigger men than this and really, if the diminutive doctor thought he had the upper ha—

"Oh _g-g-g-god."_

John. His hand. Moving _there._ Again.

Only after he'd clutched John's biceps with crabbed fingers, only _after_ he'd pressed his forehead to John's and sort of whined, did Sherlock realize what he'd done and only then, casually as he could, did he sit up and get control of himself.

Fine. _Fine._ Sherlock would concede that John was really quite good at this but that didn't mea—

"Godhavemercy…oh…god…oh…god," John's hand. _John's amazing hand,_ sort of wrapped around his cock _through his trousers,_ stroking, stroking.

Sherlock closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and spread those legs with the flexibility of a damned acrobat.

Who was about to miss the net.

Because John's hand was bloody well gone _again,_ the warmth of his body against Sherlock's legs was gone and when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, he discovered his voice—and perhaps his mind—was pretty well gone, too.

And _that_ was when Sherlock Sometimes-Surprisingly-Stupid Holmes finally realized the glaringly obvious. When you actually _want_ to crawl on top of a small, delicious-smelling, mostly-naked, giggle-prone someone and let him do you until your eyes roll up in your head, it was a lot, _lot_ harder to, you know, maintain your sexual cool.

John pressed his hand between Sherlock's shaking thighs again, then stopped moving.

"Shall I finish this?"

"Oh god yes."

"I have…terms."

"Yes."

"Just yes?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't heard my—"

_"Yes, yes, yes, yes, John. Yes. Yes."_ To show his degree of commitment Sherlock clutched John's hand and sort of rubbed it against himself. Vigorously.

John grinned and his smile was not vulpine. It should have been. "Fine. Fine. Good. The terms are really very simple."

"Yes, good."

"One question for every stroke."

"Good. Yes. Yes."

"Of the blade."

"What?"

"You heard me. We're here to shave you, aren't we?"

Frankly, Sherlock had completely forgotten about that.

"So. I'll ask you anything I like and—"

"Yes. Okay."

John giggled. "—and you can ask _me_ anything _you_ like."

"Right. Good. Fine. Yes. Let's go."

"Patience my love. So. I'll ask you anything, you can ask _me_ anything and then…"

John bowed between Sherlock's legs, rubbed his face soft-hard against the bulge there, whispered, "…then I'll do anything you want for as long as you want any where you want." Swiping his hot tongue across his lover's clothed cock, John murmured, "Twice."

Sherlock's hands fluttered to the back of John's head. It's been three months. Only three. Since they became a couple, they have, yes, done each other in every room of the flat and nearly every day—twice on Sundays—but there's only so much ground you can cover in twelve weeks. There is, however, no limit to what you can imagine.

"A-anything?"

The soft drag of teeth. "Yes."

"No matter how—" A tender nip. An answering groan. "—indecent?"

John took a deep breath, breathed it out hot against him. "Oh god yes."

_So right. Good. Fine. _Fine._ Still we have a man with an unshaved ginger beard. Why? I have no clue. This story is taking its own sweet time and who am I to argue if own-sweet-time translates into sexual titillation? But enough is enough. So help me there will be a consulting detective orgasm next chapter even if I have to go into that loo and make it damn well happen myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, _that_ remark has suddenly created an urgent need for me to visit my happy place. Good day._


	4. Chapter 4

"Actually, you know, I like the beard, it suits me, I look good in it, we should leave it."

Sherlock's a surprisingly bad liar when he's so randy he can't keep his hands off himself.

"Sometimes you're a surprisingly bad liar Sherlock. And get your hand off yourself." John stared at the long fingers pressed against Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock looked down as if surprised to see them there. He probably was.

John waited until both of Sherlock's hands rested on his black-clad thighs. "Ready?"

Sherlock wanted to say yes. It's what he wants to say to anything John asks, but he didn't because right now he couldn't. Which was, frankly, a small miracle.

Because honestly, no one's been able to shut Sherlock up before now. Even when he was a baby he'd cried, muttered, babbled, or just burped if that was all he had in him.

Point is, that brain? That damn big brain that's been full-steam-ahead since the first synapse formed and fired? It's been moving Sherlock's mouth pretty much non-stop since forever and the only creature that has ever been able to quiet it was standing right in front of him, quiet, watching with the most perfect blue eyes Sherlock had ever seen.

_Yes, John. Always yes._

It was well-known that John Watson, like his lover, was something of a genius. Brilliant, it turns out, at deciphering consulting detectives. A rare skill that. About as rare as consulting detectives.

So, despite the fact that Sherlock said nothing, John knew what Sherlock was saying. Still, John wanted him to actually _say it._ So John said nothing. And John could say nothing for a lot, lot longer than Sherlock.

_Ready, _John asked. _Ready?_

The problem was that Sherlock wasn't ready. For sex? Yes, most certainly, very definitely—Sherlock's hand drifted between his legs again, where he pressed and pulled without knowing he was doing it—but ready for revelation?

Oh god no.

While Sherlock did so love to ask, probe, piece together, he was not keen on being asked, probed, pieced. Because he'd had it figured it out by the age of nine: when kids asked him questions—What's your middle name? Where'd you go for Christmas? Why do you talk so much?—all they were doing was stockpiling ammunition for later.

_And yet…_

Three months. Twelve weeks. Ninety days. There's so many ways to state a fact, isn't there? Sherlock had so far been John's lover for three months. For twelve weeks. For ninety days. And in that brief time—in that blink of an eye, in that forever—John had seen Sherlock weep. He'd seen him on his knees. He'd heard him beg, listened to him cry out as he came, watched him bleed at his own hand.

If Sherlock thought about it—and right now he was—as far as ammunition went, John really had quite enough to be going on with. So why was he sitting on a toilet, mashing his cock, looking up at this short, patient creature looking down at him and _doing nothing?_

_Say yes, Sherlock. Say yes._

So Sherlock said yes, he said I'm ready, he said it expediently and without words, by stripping himself naked to the waist.

And John very carefully didn't frown.

Even at a glance the good doctor could see the wound over Sherlock's heart hadn't fully healed, that it was still red, a little raised; John knew now that it would scar. The scar would be faint, but it would be there, on Sherlock's chest. Forever.

John also knew he shouldn't do it, shouldn't touch it, shouldn't love this thing at the same time as hate it, but he didn't stop himself from running soft fingers over Sherlock's gift, given eight weeks ago: A crooked little heart, scribed with a scalpel into Sherlock's own chest, the initials JW nested inside it. Thinking himself quite sensible Sherlock had waited a whole day—when he thought it would no longer be bleeding—before he'd let John see it.

John still doesn't understand why the ugly little thing makes him want to giggle and shout at the same time.

"Ready?"

John was still staring, still tenderly touching. He shook his head. "Yes, sorry. Yes. I am." Drawing in a quick breath John turned, gathered the tools he'd need.

...

"How did you get this?"

The loo was warm, the mirror steamy from the hot water in which John had soaked the flannel. Sherlock's beard was soft now and the first stroke of the blade—a straight razor Sherlock had had tucked away in a drawer—was easy.

John brushed his thumb softly under Sherlock's lower lip, to show him which scar he meant. Sherlock had so many.

"A neighbor girl thrashed me after school when I was eight."

John's brows tensed. Sherlock touched the scar. "It only needed three stitches."

The doctor dipped the razor into the sink, shook it clean.

"It's hard to prevent scars." John glanced at a criss-cross of faint raised lines on the back of Sherlock's hands. "Some people are just prone."

John lifted the razor again. "How did you—"

"You said I could ask questions, too."

John's brows did a short, surprised samba up his forehead. "Oh. Sure. Go ahead."

"If you had to lose the ability to hear or the ability to speak, which would you choose?"

Again John's brows did a little dance. It shouldn't surprise him that Sherlock's question was…strange.

John pressed the razor high up along Sherlock's other cheek, dragged it down carefully and smoothly. "Not sure. I think I could live without talking. I'd learn sign language, I suppose."

The good doctor rinsed the blade again.

About a year from now John'll learn that many of the men in Sherlock's family go deaf in their 60s; he'll also learn that if given the choice, Sherlock would rather lose the ability to speak than to hear. Which was really saying something.

"Me next?"

At the request for permission a ghost of a smile flickered over Sherlock's face. "Yes, John."

"Okay. Other than that magnificent brain of yours, what do you like about your body."

Sherlock's ghost of a smile faded. "John."

"Sherlock."

_"John."_

"And, once again, _Sherlock."_

An annoyed sigh. These are the kinds of questions Sherlock hates and if you ask him why he won't even dignify your inquiry with derision. However, Sherlock's only a liar with strangers, idiots, and criminal suspects so though he feigned thought for a moment, it was clear he had an answer.

"My hands. The fingers are long. Dexterous. Often useful." Sherlock's gaze briefly snagged at John's crotch, a grin surged back. "For quite a lot of things."

John ran shorter fingers softly along the freshly bare patch at Sherlock's jaw. Already he missed the ginger beard and it wasn't even gone yet. "Oh yes."

Sherlock stilled John's hand with his own. It was clear he knew the next question he wanted to ask, but he hesitated. Finally, with a kiss to the palm, he asked softly, "How did you feel the first time you killed someone?"

John could have feigned thought, too. Surely a question that intense deserved deep reflection. Yet John answered almost instantly. "Relieved. Relieved he couldn't hurt them any longer. Relieved my aim was true and it happened fast. Just relieved."

They each stared silent at nothing much for awhile, then John shook his head. "Ah, I missed a stroke that time."

Sherlock closed his eyes, lifted his chin, waited.

And…waited.

When he finally opened his eyes John softly palmed him through his trousers, massaged the bulge there.

_Yes, John._

That nice little grope was meant as a bit of a tease. John had every intension of continuing to shave Sherlock, really he did.

That's not what happened next, though. Not at all.

Standing straight, about to reach for the razor again, John said, "Tell me something I don't know about you, love."

Sherlock knew John wasn't asking about when he got his first puppy (it was Mycroft's actually, and Sherlock was five and instantly besotted) or how he'd liked his first trip abroad (he didn't).

John was asking for revelation.

_Yes, John._

So that's what Sherlock gave him.

"I would die for you."

And those words…

_Those words._

Count them. The words. The letters, too. Do you see? How few? Barely any. Almost none. Just five tiny words. So small they take just one second to speak. There's nothing special about any of them on their own.

So explain their power. Explain how, when strung together, they could ramp a man's heart rate by thirty beats in seconds. Explain how they could gust the air from his lungs, how fifteen little letters could disengage his joints, weaken muscles, loosen tendons, until the man was forced to his knees. Explain how they could clamp like a vice around his heart and at the same time make him feel free.

John bowed his head, then gave up holding himself even that much together. He slumped to the floor, cheek against Sherlock's thighs, and said a whole lot of nothing because what could he say?

_I've nearly died for strangers a dozen times over. I was willing to do it for you the day we met. And until this moment I didn't know, had no idea, not one small clue that I wanted someone to want to __do it for me._

No, John didn't say any of that, couldn't because such musings aren't really in the nature of Johns. And though Sherlock was really quite rubbish at relationships he did understand the heart. No. He understood _this _man's heart.

Sherlock leaned over, surrounded his lover with his arms. "A hundred times over, John. A thousand."

Hyperbole: Sherlock's really quite full of it. _Lower the IQ of the whole street._ _Smarter than the rest of you combined—and she's dead. It's as obvious as a brass band in a bedroom._

But this was not that. Sherlock meant every word and if he could have tattooed those words to his chest right then to prove their truth he'd have done it. A hundred times over. A thousand.

How all of this—_this_ being a little escapade to shave one man's wiry ginger beard—had teeter-tottered from serious to silly to sexy to silly to _this_ was a mystery for the ages, but it had, and maybe John and Sherlock would have gone somewhere dark just then—they're not without very, very large emotional baggage, these boys—but about then a kettle down below got filled once more, making the pipes rap aggressively against the wall.

That sudden sound caused both of them to jump so hard John banged his head against Sherlock's chin, which cracked Sherlock's teeth closed over his tongue, which caused him to bolt upright and knee John in the side of the head which caused John to sit up and shout, "Mother fucking god damn fuck!" which didn't precisely cause them both to devolve into hysterics but still that's exactly what happened anyway.

Five minutes can seem like a hell of a long time when you're laughing so hard you can't breathe. Each time one of them stopped giggling, the peals of the other tipped him over again, which then fueled the fire which then wrapped back around which then kept it going on for approximately forever or for what was more commonly known as "fucking god I'm going to die stop it Sherlock seriously stop it I can't breathe _stop stop stop_ oh god."

Eventually they did stop. And eventually John slumped against the tub again, as he'd been not thirty minutes before, and he looked up at Sherlock with his—well it _sort of_ looked like a goatee—half-shaved face and right about then John gave it up for a bad job. Mission Shaving Sherlock was officially aborted because with the way things were going, if they continued at this intense, emotional pace one of them was quite possibly going to emerge pregnant from this loo because _seriously._

But it ain't over until the large lady sings. Or until the good doctor shouts, either or.

Because that emotional baggage we were talking about? It was still in that room. Oh there was less of it than they'd come in with, sure, but Sherlock's mind doesn't easily give up on some things and it wasn't willing to give up on this.

So when John said, "I think we should finish this whole shaving lark a little later and that you should tell me that indecent sex fantasy of yours. I think you should tell me how you want me to make love to you, Sherlock, yes I certainly do"—well, Sherlock did.

Sort of.

"I want…"

Sherlock looked down at his lover, into soft blue peaceful, sensible, honest, not-crazy-like-me eyes, and felt suddenly like an idiot.

Good god but he hated that feeling.

"—the um, riding crop. Just that."

Remember the bit about Sherlock not lying except to suspects and strangers? Well that was kind of a lie, but when he lies to John he doesn't really mean to, not to John. Fortunately he's very bad at it.

"Liar."

If there'd been a third party in that small space with them they might have rolled their eyes at this point and said, "Oh lord here we go again," because it started getting all intense, and serious, and sort of revelation-y in that loo once more, but somehow John recognized this and reeled it in saying, "Tell me what you really want or I will go downstairs and pee on your moon rock."

No one alive can diddle around with emotional baggage after those words, said in that order.

"I want you to shout."

Bam. It was said. Done. Out there. John nodded to show he'd heard, nodded again to encourage more.

Yet Sherlock said nothing more. For awhile. Then he opened his mouth, said more nothing. Finally even he got tired of his stupid fears and so he shoved the words out, raw, and needy and silly to his own ears. "Yell John. Just yell at me, raise your voice, be loud. Convince me, make me believe."

John rose, kinda duck-walked on his knees over to that toilet. Sherlock tugged him close, tucked his face against John's neck. The good doctor said nothing; he knew the hard part was coming now, here was the unveiling.

"Yell, shout, scream at me that you…that…you…"

Sherlock's body started to go hard, tense, and even though he was pressed against him the good doctor could feel his lover shrinking away, withdrawing.

_Convince me. Make me believe._

"…that…that you…that you feel…"

Enough.

John stood, clambered into Sherlock's lap, straddled him on that toilet—good god they hadn't even made it out of the loo for this—slid his hands into Sherlock's hair, fisted them. He stared into foggy eyes and very carefully, softly, precisely bit out each word: "Listen. To. Me. _Are. You. Listening?"_

Sherlock gusted out a hard breath, his arms slid tight around John's waist.

The good doctor rocked his hips once, felt the press of Sherlock's erection between them.

"I'll ask you again, Sherlock, are you listening?" John's voice, still soft and yet it was a shout barely contained.

_Yes, John_

"Say it, Sherlock."

"Yes, John."

"Say it again." John's voice…a little louder.

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice…a little softer.

_"Say it again."_ Louder.

"Yes." Softer.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, John."

"Again."

"Yes, John."

John tugged Sherlock's head close, until their noses touched, became peripherally aware that Sherlock was squirming beneath him.

"What are you saying yes to Sherlock?" His voice was now loud enough you could hear it from the sitting room, but not quite from another flat.

Sherlock's breathing was a little erratic and his brain a bit scrambled so he didn't answer right away so John yelled—this time so loudly Sherlock jumped, "Answer me!"

"That I know you love me!"

John pressed his hands flat either side of Sherlock's head, held him tight, squirmed against his hard-on.

"Again Sherlock!"

John knew that this was the opposite of what Sherlock had meant, the exact opposite. He'd wanted to hear the words from John's mouth but John's said these words before, a dozen times a dozen already in only a dozen weeks. It's time for Sherlock to say them.

"God damn it!" John shoved his chest against his lover's, rammed the slender man's spine up against the cool porcelain tank, "Say it again Sherlock, _now!"_

"You love me, you love me, you love me, I know you love me!"

"Louder!"

Sherlock's head was wobbly on his neck, his bones had gone soft and something in his chest ached and burned, fluttered then flew.

John shoved one hand between them so there was more pressure against Sherlock's cock, rocked his hips hard with each shout.

"Say it Sherlock, shout it, scream it!"

Sherlock's eyes were closed, both fists bunched up in the front of John's jumper. He could barely move, had no leverage, but John was moving for both of them and it was all Sherlock could do, just this, just the words.

"John loves me!"

John ground his hips down.

"John loves me!" Sherlock groaned.

"John loves me!" He shouted.

"John loves me!" He moaned.

Sherlock finally let his head tip back against the wall and roared, "He loves me, he loves, he…John, John, John, JohnJohnJohnJohngod_John!"_

...

It was a good night.

After Sherlock came—in the loo; on the toilet; nearly fully clothed; John straddling him half naked; good lord—they at last adjourned to the bedroom.

Nothing much happened after they got there to be honest, because you try jumping that many emotional hurdles one late afternoon and see how energetic _you _feel.

But when Sherlock woke up sometime round half past nine? Well he had a very bright idea. He would touch John. While John slept.

Butterfly touches, John would later name them. Barely-there-soft-as-silky-wings touches, flits and flutters of fingertips here-there-everywhere, soft and sensual caresses inside the crook of an elbow, behind a knee or an ear, delicate, trembling touches against lips and inside thighs and over nipples; touches so careful, so tender, so patient that eventually even a sleeping man's body rouses, though he sleeps on.

Rouses enough for his heart to start thrumming, his mouth to open, wakes enough for a soft cock to lengthen, hardened, start to drip.

When John finally woke it was to the sound of his own moaning, and when Sherlock's dexterous fingers slid into him and then around him it was as easy as that, John started coming with an arch of his back and a breathy sigh.

After _that_ they rang up Angelo's. He told them to come on over; yes, of course, he'd feed them after hours, no problem, glad to do it, silly boys, don't even ask.

Before they left, however, Sherlock had to shave.

It took him less than five minutes.

END

_Thank you Madder Badder for the question about Ben's, __er, Sherlock's lip scar, U__nunpentium__ for Sherlock's hearing/speech question, LucyBun thank you for the question about how it felt to kill someone. I meant to get 20 questions in here, I really did, a lot more sex, too, but angst will find a way. Apparently angst will _always _damn well find a way._


End file.
